Mind Games
by Principessa Di Morte
Summary: *discontinued; available for pick up* - "Hello, Neal? You there? Neal?" ... "Peter! Listen, I don't have much time to explain, but I'm in trouble. I don't know who he is or what he wants, but I need help... I've been kidnapped."
1. Plans

A/N: Hey, everybody! So, I was going to wait until I at least had this somewhat finished, but… I'm not. Which is most likely a foolish decision, but who cares? It's the internet. : ) Anyway, I figured I'd post because it has been FAR too long since I put up any White Collar fic, and the last three have had such wonderful responses… Anywho. I should stop gabbering. Yes, this is hurt/comfort. Duh. :] Be forewarned: disturbing images lie in wait.

Have fun!

_It's dark. Neal isn't able to tell if its just pitch-black or if he's actually blind, and that terrifies him. It's dark, and cold, and silent, and he's in pain and scared. He really wishes he weren't here right now, wishes the last two hours had never happened. No, scratch that: he wishes the past week had never happened. He groans, praying for help. He hasn't seen Peter in hours-doesn't even know if he's alive anymore. And that scares him even more than the dark. _

_From the endless abyss of nothing around him echoes a pounding, that of soles on a hard surface. Neal's pulse picks up, and he scoots away, frantically; desperately. He scrabbles on his hands and knees to find somewhere-anywhere-to hide from the nightmare he knows is coming, but there's nothing, and when the hands find him, there is no blockage from their pull. _

_He gasps and tries to pull away, but any vestiges of strength he had left are now drained completely, and Neal simply gives up, falling limp and lifeless as he's pulled away, to what he now can only hope is freedom or death._

7:32 AM, December 20th, 2010

Peter rolls over, groaning at the incessant ringing pounding through his head. A hand flails out to catch the alarm clock where the snooze button is, and he sighs in relief when the loud sound ceases. Opening his eyes, Peter instinctually reaches over the Elizabeth's side of the bed, but he hand falls on empty air. Peter's halfway out of bed before he hears the shower running.

The FBI agent sighs again, mentally face palming. He really has to loosen up. Peter snorts, practically hearing Neal's voice in his head.

"I spend entirely too much time with that man," comes the muttered utterance.

Peter reaches the bureau half an hour later, after a home-cooked breakfast of an omelet and hash browns, and, of course, a goodbye kiss. The traffic was minimal for once, and he's actually in a great mood. His only regret is that the coffee wasn't done before he left. The mostly-glass building before him gleams almost blindingly in the sunlight, and Peter hurries inside, taking the elevator to his department, briefcase clutched tightly in his fist.

The doors open to reveal none other than Neal Caffrey, suit impeccably tailored, fedora on his head, beaming smile on his face.

"Hey, Peter."

The agent sighs witheringly, but there's a ghost of a smile on his face as he pushes past Neal.

"Have you been standing there all morning?"

"Oh, not even a hello? I'm hurt," Neal pouts. "I even had this all ready for you." He holds out a familiar-looking paper cup, capped and smelling wonderful.

Peter's brow creases, and he sniffs the coffee, taking a cautious sip before tilting the cup back further. This is definitely not office coffee.

"Thanks."

"No problem." The two start up again, walking towards Peter's office. "Oh, and to answer your question, no. You're too predictable, Peter."

"Predictable? I am not."

The protest comes while Peter's opening the door, and he halts while he speaks. Before he can finish, Neal has deftly slipped around him, plucked his briefcase from his hand, and set it precisely where Peter would've. The Suit sighs.

"Fine. How am I predictable?"

Neal grins. "Okay, I'll admit, it has some to do with my incredible powers of deduction. You can see your parking place from here."

He stops, and Peter slumps. So he wasn't making it easy for him. "And that helps because…"

"You turned it at exactly 7:55, straight in. You didn't screech, or swerve, or rush in late… You only needed one try, and that's tricky parallel parking. You were in exactly on time, and your walk was very brisk and bouncy."

"Bouncy?"

Neal rolls his eyes. "You asked. Anyway," he pulls away from Peter's desk, taking a brown-ish folder with him. "We've got a case."

"How do you know this before me? Why were you here so early, anyway?" Peter queries as they both step out of the office, walking side by side towards the meeting room where Jones is already waiting.

"Alarm went off at the wrong time and I couldn't get back to sleep."

Peter nods, accepting the answer, and pushes open the meeting room door, striding in and allowing Neal passage to follow him. The pair continues to the head of the table and Neal drops the file on the table within easy reach of Peter, who snatches it up and begins flipping through it.

"Morning, Jones," Neal greets easily, and the addressee returns the genial greeting. "So, this guy's a real nut job, huh?"

Jones nods. "Yeah. I mean, we get some weird cases, but this one…" He shakes his barren head. "Some people I just don't understand."

"And that," Neal starts, sitting down and propping his feet up on the table, "is why you have me." There's that cheeky smile again. Jones rolls his eyes.

"So explain him to me then. Why would he go around stealing pictures from private galleries, taking the time and effort of methodically and practically surgically destroying them, then delivering them to some random, middle class family's home? What could possibly be the objective here?"

Neal leans back, shutting his eyes, a small crease appearing between his brows. "Different reasons. It could be he's just a fake, hired by someone to carry out the crimes for a sum of money. Or," and now Neal leans forward again, a hard glint coming into his eyes. "Maybe its something completely different. I mean, he could've had some bad experience with artists or art, and is taking it out now."

"Okay, sure, but why the delivery to a family?"

Neal pauses a moment before speaking again, thoughtfully. "Either its simply to cause public, or perhaps bureaucratic, confusion, or…" He straightens a bit. "A warning."

Peter glances up from the file, frowning. "A warning? You think he knew the people previously? Wouldn't he stick to the more high-class elites of the society?"

Neal shakes his head. "It depends. Besides, he may not have a personal bond. If it is a warning, maybe he's picking random people to terrorize the city. Otherwise, they aren't completely random, yet he doesn't know them… he may be working towards something higher." Neal trails off, suddenly grabbing the file from a surprised Peter and flipping through it. "I need a map."

Bewildered, Peter gestures to Jones, who hurries into the main part of their floor to search. Peter leans over Neal's shoulder, squinting at the page, which shows all the info on the families their perp has delivered the paintings to.

"What? You think they all have some common… placement bond?"

Neal is frowning, closing his eyes briefly and picturing the New York area. "I think there's a pattern."

Its then that Jones come in, map of the city in his hand. "We apparently have one on hand." He sets it on the table in front of Neal, who spreads it out next to the file.

"Pen," Neal says shortly, holding out his hand while his gaze stays fixated on the two papers. Rolling his eyes, Peter hands the writing utensil over, watching closely while the ex-con starts marking the map, eyes turning from the information to the city and back again. His hand is moving with swift movements, quickly creating an inky design. And soon, a picture forms. Peter and Jones' eyes widen simultaneously as the clear beginning to a pentagram comes into view. Neal leans back, brow furrowed deeply now.

"Looks like this guy may be nuttier than we first thought."

.

In the deep darkness sits a man. He's fair-skinned, of average height, and medium weight, maybe a bit lanky. Its there that similarity to most others of the human species end. Arachnodactyly assaults the hands of the figure, sending the fingers shooting off into almost endless length, spidery things and infinitely fragile. Horrid disfigurement has been brought about over exactly half his exposed skin, caused by some hitherto unknown source. It looks like a mix between a burn and the plague, and would give any sane person nightmares if they were to be so unfortunate as to see it.

His hair, at least what's left of it on the non-marred side, is an ash color, wispy and split. The lips that have rarely spun any sort of kind etymology since he left the womb are a sickly greenish-yellow, and the narrow slit in his throat letting in a thin tube only adds to the illusion that he's already dead.

"Marcus."

His breath becomes a white cloud. He likes the chamber cold. From somewhere in the distance, a scuttling sounds starts up, and the man smiles. He can tell Marcus is nervous simply from the way he's walking. What a weak man.

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to fetch something for me." His voice is like a frozen snake, all smooth evil. But somehow, the words still manage to seem childish. "Its vital that you complete this request with the utmost efficiency and haste. I'm quite desperate for a new game. I'm growing bored with my current one."

"Yes sir, of course sir. Which do you desire? How shall I fetch it?"

"This one is quite the interesting puzzle. Gone from yin to yang, war to peace, dark to light. And grown bonds, I might add, not at all the hatred you'd expect."

"Sounds intriguing, sir."

"Oh, very, Marcus. You'll find it trying to play something other than it is at the bureau. Shiny place, that. It's where he's right now attempting to solve my own little puzzle I've set up. Isn't that funny, a puzzle solving a puzzle? Who would've thought. Anyway, now, it is, of course, a treasured game, and will be well protected. So perhaps you should go instead to its unrightful owner? Yes. That will work."

"Yes sir."

"It goes by the name of Neal Caffrey, but we all know that's not accurate. I think, a more fitting and true name, would be Clue. He uses many of those, and I'll need them to figure him out. What a fun game! Now leave me, Marcus. Bring me back my Clue within the day."

"Yes sir. Of course, sir."

Marcus hurries off, and the man smiles to himself. What fun. This will be the best game yet.

..

_A/N: Intriguing, I hope? Reviews are the heart to my break. All love. _


	2. Germs

_A/N: Hello, again! So, the response to the first chapter was wonderful-thanks to all! I generally try to personally respond to each review, but I didn't do it all at once this time and then got confused as to who I had responded to and who I hadn't-sorry! If I skipped over you, my dearest apologies; I really do appreciate each and every review, and I take them all to heart. Anyway, this chapter is where the action starts, so I will delay you no longer. :D Enjoy. _

..

"So what is he going to do?" Peter is all business now, but Neal doesn't seem to be quite as excited. He's sitting again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Peter gives him a slight frown, but says nothing.

"All we know right now is he's making a pattern. Maybe that's the only goal," Jones suggests, drumming his fingers on the table.

"This guy is creating a potentially demonic symbol. So the cults aren't real, but there are freaks out there. We might need to warn or even protect these families."

Both debaters fall silent, looking to the third party in the room, but he doesn't notice. He's preoccupied, rubbing his temples and wincing.

"Neal?" Peter asks, concern flavoring his tone. "You all right?"

Neal pulls his hand away from his face, and, realizing he's being stared at, straightens and smiles.

"Yeah. Fine. Sorry. Just-ah-just a headache. I didn't get much sleep last night." He shrugs. "So, uh, what were we talking about?"

Peter peers at him. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Peter, I'm good." He stands. "So we've basically been profiling the whole time, but if we wanna catch this guy, we need a lead, right? And now we have one." Here, Neal inserts a gesture to the map. "The first of the two final points is right here. We hold a stakeout… easy."

Peter thinks for a moment. "I'll need to check with Hughes. But otherwise, it sounds like a plan to me."

Neal half-smiles, and Peter heads out the door, huffing as the former manages to precede him out of the room anyway. The sound of exasperation turns to one of worry, though, as the consult stumbles, hand quickly going out to catch himself on the wall. The unoccupied arm goes back to his brow, kneading. Peter hurries over.

"Caffrey?"

Neal starts, turning to find Peter too close for his liking and stumbling back. "I'm good."

"Yeah, I can see that." Now that he's so close, Peter's noticing things he didn't before. Like the light shadows under Neal's eyes, and the shallow pain lines tightening his mouth. "You look horrible."

"Thanks, Peter. That's always what I want to hear."

"You know that's not what I meant. What's going on?"

Neal sags, back once again meeting the wall. "I'm _fine_, Peter. Just feeling a little run down."

"Maybe you should-"

"_No._" Neal cuts the request off before its even finished. "I'm not sitting this one out. You need me. It's important, which is exactly why I can't leave. This guy is complicated, Peter. He's unpredictable, and if I'm not there…" He falters. "Something might happen." The conclusion is shaky, at best.

"And I understand that, Neal, I really do. But if I have you there when you're like this-tired, unfocused, not feeling well-you're a liability."

As soon as the harsh words leave his mouth, Peter winces, knowing it's a low blow. Neal pales almost imperceptibly, then straightens up, mouth tightening angrily. With a sharp pivot, he's heading towards the door, steps brisk and quick.

"Neal," Peter starts, but his attempt is ignored, and before anything else can be said, Neal's gone. Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair.

He'll call later and settle things-when Neal calms down he'll be able to see sense-but right now there's no time. They're in the middle of an investigation.

With a final glance towards the doors, Peter stalks off to find his boss.

..

Neal strides down the stairs and out of the federal building, anger coloring his cheeks. He knows the hurt feeling is unjustified, but lets it flow anyway. Just when he'd gotten back his status with Peter…

Now that's a ridiculous thought, and mentally, Neal chastises himself. But he can't deny the truth of it, not really. He'd been starting to think Peter had finally been treating him as an equal again, and not some fragile lunatic, liable to fall apart at any moment. They'd finally been partners, and now… this. Some stupid little bug coming along to collapse his entire effort. Really, he's fine. Staying and working would probably be better than walking all the way home, right? Of course, Peter probably doesn't know he's walking. He could call June or hail a taxi… that's severely unlikely, as everyone knows.

But still, the agent didn't ask, didn't even seem like he cared. And there's that unjustified hurt again.

Neal's subdued self-pity session is interrupted by a quick cry, and immediately his bright blue eyes are up and roaming about, scanning for the danger. The previously unintelligible yell soon morphs into _help,_ and he's off, sprinting down the sidewalk and into an empty building; a construction project long ago forgotten. His thoughts run a mile a minute. Mugging? Kidnapping? Worse? His steps momentarily falter; perhaps this is out of his league? But they quickly start up again. If he ignores this, he'll never live with the guilt.

All too soon, the darkened entryway is looming in Neal's vision, and he takes a cautious step in, pulse skyrocketing as the frantic cries stop. That's never good. His trained gaze takes in everything it can see, brain automatically filing it away for any needed reference. The escape routes-or rather, lack of them-are charted, and possible obstacles mentally plotted. This all happens in the space of a second, while he's still venturing in, straining to hear any hint of the supposed struggle of a minute ago. But nothing meets him. At least, not until he rounds a beam and comes face to face with another, much larger man.

"Clue," he says, completely baffling Neal. "Only you would come running after a 'help' in Manhattan." He pauses, peering down at the smaller man in front of him in a chillingly objective way. "I thought you'd be more fun to retrieve. It has been quite the little game, though. Oh, yes. He'll enjoy you."

Neal finally gets the command to his legs to _run_, but by now its too late. The man grabs his left arm in a giant, painfully hard grip, using the other to clap a foul-smelling rag over his mouth. The ex-felon's eyes widen as he realizes what's happening, and fights for all he's worth, even while going under.

It's all in vain, though. His struggles work against him, and soon he's sagging completely boneless in his captor's arms, dead to the world.

And Marcus only nods and takes off, knowing this is only the beginning.

...

_A/N: Reviews are the armor to my van._


	3. Beginning

_A/N: Hello again, dearest readers. So, the response to this has been absolutely awesome! Now I know there are many Neal whumpers out there, and this chapter is for you. :) Hello, my name is Morte, and sometimes I am a sadist. Can't say I didn't warn you. _

...

Peter is beginning to hate this van. It's hot, small, stuffy, the screens are fuzzy, Jones smells like sweat, and his stomach is growling harshly at him. Not that he could actually eat anything right now. No, he's much too twisted up in guilt to force anything down to appease the beast that was once his stomach. His hands twist restlessly in his lap, a gut wrenching picture of betrayed blue eyes running treacherously through his mind. Peter swears softly, knowing his unease isn't going to leave him until he sets this right.

Muttering a quiet, _"screw it all," _Peter moves swiftly and silently out of the van, Jones glancing at him with a knowing smirk before going back to the screen. The disheveled agent hurries away from the van, briskly stepping through an intersection before finding a small coffee shop. Once inside, he orders a tall black brew, receives it, and shuffles to a bench, slumping into his seat and reluctantly pulling out his phone.

Scrolling through the alphabetized names in the small device, Peter lets out a weary sigh, contemplating how best to get through to Caffrey that he's sorry without actually saying the words. Neal's always been more sentimental and touchy-feely than him, and he's (obviously) much better with words. So when this stuff happens… frankly, it sucks. Finally, **Caffrey, Neal**appears above Peter's thumb, and he only hesitates a moment before pressing OK and lifting the phone to his ear, chewing thoughtfully on his lip.

Sometimes he really hates that man.

...

Neal is just waking up when his phone starts whistling, sending a dagger through his skull. Grimacing, he tries to reach for his pocket, only to find he's unable to move. Blue eyes widen and Neal strains his arms, realizing they've been bound. Along with his mouth and ankles. With that realization comes the memories, and Neal's heart begins to stutter at a most likely very unhealthy rate. He starts to take a deep breath when he sees the small glowing screen in front of him. The breath whooshes out and he rears back, noticing quite belatedly that his phone is no longer in his pocket. It's laying in front of him. And the caller ID says Peter.

For some funny reason, he gets calm. He has a goal now, and actually knows what to do to achieve it. Twisting into an extremely uncomfortable position, Neal manages to get his hands under his feet and pull them up in front of him. Thankful only his wrists are bound, Neal presses the green button on the phone before gingerly starting in on the duct tape on his mouth. He sincerely hopes Peter will notice something's not right and not just hang up when he doesn't immediately get an answer.

"_Hello?… Neal?" _Neal smiles in relief. _"Listen… about earlier today…_ _I know you'll give me no end of crap for this later, but…_" The smile freezes. _"I'm sorry._" Neal almost laughs. At least, he would if the tape weren't still stubbornly clinging to his skin.

"_Neal? Are you there?" _His tugs become more frantic, occasionally taking off more than tape. Neal really wishes he'd shaved better this morning. _"You're not really that mad, are you? Neal?" _

The man in question finally is able to get out some form of speech. Not a word, exactly, but a sound, at least. Some sort of grunt. He hopes Peter will understand.

"_Caffrey?"_

And now, bless his heart, Peter sounds genuinely concerned. "Peter!" Well, the tape is off.

"_Jeez, Neal, what the heck! Give a guy a heart attack…"_

Neal doesn't have the time now to apologize. "Listen, Peter, I'm in trouble." He doesn't let the agent interrupt, not knowing when his captor might return. "I was kidnapped. From that abandoned shop beginning a block from the bureau. It was a 6' guy with short-cropped brown hair and a scar over his left eye. Uh, brown eyes. I don't know who he is or what he wants, and he hasn't come back. I don't know where we are… I was unconscious while we were driving. But if you didn't get an alert…" Hope sparks in Neal's chest. "Then I can't be far away."

Peter starts to reply, but before Neal can hear what he's saying, he notices footsteps coming towards him, and quietly shuts the device, slipping it into his pocket. There is no light to see by, and no way to tell where the footsteps are coming from-it seems like everywhere. In fact, Neal is starting to think it might be. What is this, a whole army?

He wriggles uncomfortably, trying to maneuver his feet up to his hands so he'll be able to pull the duct tape off his ankles. It's very awkward going, and he nearly sprains his back, but finally gets the tape torn off. He stands, not caring about his wrists yet, just not wanting to be on the cold ground for a second longer. The footsteps have stopped, and Neal almost wonders if they were ever really there. Darkness can, after all, do strange things to the mind.

He shakes his head, dispelling the dark thoughts. No, he hasn't even been here long enough. He needs to find out what's going on, if only to distract himself until Peter arrives with the cavalry. Another head shake, this time accompanied by a sigh.

Peter would save him, after all. He always does…

Then the lights come on, and Neal isn't quite as sure anymore.

...

Peter stares at the phone in his hand for a few seconds after hearing the dial tone, mind reeling. _What…? _Neal, kidnapped? How-? He jumps up and races out of the coffee shop, ignoring the surprised and affronted stares of the other patrons. Heart pounding, Peter books it back to the van. He leaps inside, gasping out an explanation at the baffled stare Jones is giving him.

"We've gotta go."

"What? Did the perp run or something? We didn't see anything…" the other agent turns to the monitors, fiddling with them until Peter's next words freeze his movements.

"Neal's been kidnapped."

Jones spins around in his seat. "What? How?"

"I don't know!" Peter runs a hand through his hair, a deep crease between his brows. "He said it was from the abandoned shop a block from the bureau. Big guy, brown cropped hair, same colored eyes…" He turns to the driver, instructing him to the shop Neal had referred to.

Jones frowns. "Peter… leaving a stakeout without permission? Gunning it off to somewhere else? I know this is important, but are you sure about it?"

"You saying you don't want to go after him? Neal is our most important asset!"

Jones rears back, hands raised in placation. "Whoa, never said that. Just makin' sure, you know. I know how important your job is to you."

That gives Peter pause, but only for a moment. He nods, his eyes hard. "Yeah, well. Human life is more important."

Soon after, they arrive at the site where Neal claimed to be taken from. Peter all but jumps out of the van, stomping into the emptied building. Jones follows, the frown still on his face. He's never seen his boss quite like this. And Neal has been taken before. He approaches cautiously, setting a gentle hand on Peter's tense shoulder.

"Peter… Excuse me for askin', but, what's goin' on?" He doesn't have to elaborate. Immediately, the head agent leans against the wall, rubbing his eyes.

"It's just… the last thing I said to him, Jones. I didn't mean it, Neal knows that… I think. And he called, just, he sounded…." Peter's eyes widen. "I'm such an idiot!"

He suddenly turns and runs outside, leaving Jones even more confused than he was before.

"Anklet tracking, Jones!"

The shout comes from outside, and the outburst doesn't seem so random anymore. He's out the door on his boss's heels, praying for no more surprises.

...

Neal staggers back, unable to keep the shout from escaping as the light reveals a sight he'd rather not have seen-ever. The surreally disfigured man in front of him smiles thinly.

"Clue… does my appearance disturb you?"

Neal doesn't answer, trying to convince himself this is some twisted dream. The man comes towards him as Neal backs away, matching him step by step until the younger man hits a wall-literally. He tries to keep his cool, but somehow it isn't working very well.

"You may call me Will. That is normal, yes? And symbolic, as in I will bend you to mine."

At this, Neal can't help but snort, and Will raises an eyebrow. "You think this untrue?"

"Not to be rude, but I don't exactly 'bend' to anyone's will."

"Oh no?" Will queries, head cocked. "So that… handler of yours, you do not listen to him?"

A flash of shock crosses Neal's face, but he quickly covers. "I don't know what you're talking about. Handler? I'm an artist, not whatever you're thinking."

In a blink, the man who'd captured him is in front of Neal, and before the unassuming consult can even move, he has an overly large fist buried in his stomach. The breath immediately leaves his lungs, and he buckles over, collapsing in an ungraceful heap. He gasps through the burning in his abdomen, but isn't able to catch his breath before he's pulled literally off his feet by his collar. The burly man is right in his face, knuckles pushing against Neal's trachea.

"_Don't lie! _It's against the rules."

"The… rules?" Neal pants, struggling to breathe, hands wrapped around the guy's forearm, feet kicking desperately for a surface beneath him.

"Marcus. Enough. I want this one to last."

At that, Marcus instantly drops Neal, once again sending the ex-felon to the floor. Will approaches, staring down at the coughing man.

"Oh, yes, he must last. I have the feeling he'll be the most fun game I have had yet."

With that, he walks away, leaving Marcus guarding the only door out of the round room he's in.

Once Neal is able to breathe sufficiently again, he struggles to his feet, getting his first good look around the space. It's a dome, really, relatively small when compared to other structures of the same type but still plenty large for somewhere around 100 people. The only furnishings are starkly bright lights at the top and some sort of oddly colored wires running around it's base and through the walls.

Neal glances nervously to Marcus, but the man seems to have turned to stone. Apparently he doesn't do much without permission from Will. Neal files this away, sure he can use it to his advantage. Then the lights go out again. Groaning, Neal starts walking, hands straight out in front of him. If he can find a wall, he'll have some reference point to go off of and maybe do something useful. Like get to Marcus to take him out and be able to use his cell, which is, oddly enough, still with him.

He feels a strange tingle in the air, and struggles to place it even as he comes into contact with the wall.

Jagged pain shoots up through his hands and into his arms before branching out and freezing his entire body. He goes stiff, jaw locking, and is unable to pull away for a solid five seconds. Some distant part of his mind registers _electricity _before the current finally ends. He falls away, stumbling blinding backwards until his muscles catch up with his brain and give out. His heart pounds in an unnatural tattoo, and he just has time to think that maybe he's in more trouble than he thought before there is nothing more.

...


	4. Uncertain Rescue

_A/N: Hey, not even a little cliffie! Maybe a little foreboding, but hey, no big, right? :D Much love! Oh, and this one's longer, to boot. _

"Peter, you said Neal called you. Well, if he has his cell, why don't you just call him back?"

"I can't, Jones. When he called me, he hung up before I could say anything. I can only guess that means someone is with him. If his phone rings while he's in there, I could get him hurt."

Jones nods, not missing the nearly nonexistent hitch in his boss's breath. "I'm gonna go and get others."

Peter hardly acknowledges him, focusing on the monitor before him. By the time Jones comes back in, he's already telling the driver directions.

"Uh, Burke, don't you think we should wait? I mean, I called and it'll only take them a minute to get here. Literally."

"All the more reason we can go right now."

"You can't go in there half-cocked, Peter, you know that."

"Jones, I know what I'm doing!" He gestures angrily to the driver, and they start moving. Jones shakes his head.

"I don't doubt that, Peter. I just wonder if you know why you're doing it."

"What are you talking about?" Peter questions, checking his gun.

"You know, it's not a crime to admit he's a friend. We're all close to Neal."

Peter scoffs. "I know that." "Yeah, sure you do," Jones murmurs, turning away and sitting as the driver pulls out of the parking place. "Anyway, I guess it won't hurt to go check the place out. Just try not to be stupid about it."

Peter turns to him, clearly affronted, but Jones can also see the guilt lurking there. Before he can speak up, Jones shakes his head.

"Don't bother, Peter. I know. And when you do go in, know I've got your back."

Contrary to the denial Jones expected, Peter slouches just the smallest bit and smiles. "Thanks."

They arrive at the strange building within minutes. It's an old, half-constructed mall that was never finished. The only part complete is the middle, a strange dome structure that could hold any number of things. Peter stands as they arrive, drawing his gun.

"Okay. You stay here and wait for the backup." He starts out but doesn't get far before Jones blocks his way.

"Excuse me?"

"You stay here until the backup comes. I'll go ahead and find Neal, so when you guys come in it'll be easy to get them and get out."

"Uh-uh, no, that was not the plan. I said you could do your stupid rescue deal, but not alone. I got your back, Burke, you do know what that means?"

But the younger agent shrinks back at the glare Peter pins on him. He's only ever seen him use that on rookies. Or stubborn superiors… never his team mates. Now he knows why Peter wins so many of those arguments…

"Jones, stand down. When they get here, you know where I'll be. Center, it's the only place that makes sense. You've got to lead them there, and then I'll already have Neal and we can make this easy. If they give you crap, it's all my idea."

"You got that right," Jones assures as he reluctantly opens the van door. "Just be careful."

Peter gives a firm nod as he hops silently out of the vehicle. "Don't worry. This'll be an easy in and out."

Somehow, Jones doesn't believe him.

...

Neal is rudely awakened by a much too loud soundtrack playing. He only calls it that for lack of a better word. It's really more like white noise, some cacophony of sounds that all jumble together to make a whole lot of far too noisy nothing.

Neal presses both hands over his ears, too distracted to notice the lights have come back on.

"Ugh…" He groans. "Will you please shut that off?" There is no response, not a single dip in the volume, and he moves to get up but immediately stops as every muscle protests the movement. Cramps run through his body, and he curls in on himself, gasping.

Right. Electrocution sucks.

"Come on…" He mutters, and is immensely relieved when the sounds finally cease. But then, of course, he notices he can see now. Unfortunately.

The walls seem to have been transformed while he was out. They're swirling in a drunken mosaic of red, blues, violets, and every other color Neal thinks he's ever seen. The waving structures make him nauseous, and he can't seem to get rid of the vision even when he closes his eyes. Freakin' wonderful. It's incredibly disorienting…

When he opens his lids again, the picture has changed. From psychedelic swirls to confusing flashes that would give an epileptic a heart attack. Somewhere Neal realizes that's a really horrible comparison, but at the moment that reasonable part of him is too far gone to care. Come to think of it, he doesn't feel right at all…

This feeling only increases as his entire world blurs and tilts threateningly on it's axis. He tries to get on his knees, but his body refuses to work and he flops back down again, the coolness of the concrete soothing, but in a moment that's gone, too.

"Wha…" he mutters, completely lost now. There's only one hope he can still hold onto now, and he desperately hopes it isn't in vain. "Peter…"

...

Peter is running. His heart thuds in his chest, and it isn't only from the physical exertion. Really, he shouldn't be worrying. This kind of thing happens all the time, it's not like he'll find Neal mutilated and dumped off somewhere like TV. He knows the real world FBI isn't anything like TV.

But then there's the problem, isn't there? Sometimes the only reason it's not like television is because it is ten times worse, and that's the thought that spurs Peter into the unreasonably stupid move of kicking in the door on the side of the dome-like structure. He steps back a moment, gun outstretched, as it bursts open, but nothing happens. There is a strange blinking coming from the dim interior, and ever so carefully, Peter steps into the building. For some reason, he is entirely unsurprised when the door slams shut behind him, but he automatically swings towards it anyway.

There's nothing, no person there that could have closed it… from the inside, anyway. Peter frowns as the blinking stops and the lights come fully up. He spins, freezing as soon as the limp form in the middle of the structure comes into view. After a very quick sweep of the rest of the bleak place, Peter dashes forward, coming to a stop next to Neal. He lowers himself to his knees, hands fluttering over the other man in confusion a moment before he snaps into a more sensible mode.

He pulls Neal over into the recovery position, taking immediate note of the ex-con's paler than normal skin tone and slight tremors. He frowns deeply, patting Neal's cheek.

"Neal. Hey, Caffrey. Wake up."

At first, there's no response, and Peter's really starting to worry, but then Neal twitches. It's hardly anything, but its enough to spark hope in the agent, who pats a little harder.

"Come on, Neal."

Finally, a sliver of bright blue appears. Neal blinks his eyes open, wincing. They're glassy and confused, and immediately Peter thinks _drugs. _Crap.

"Caffrey? You with me?"

"Peter…?" And Neal's slurring and oh, crap, this is so not good. This was supposed to be easy, what if they gave him poison he could be dying crap crap crap.

Peter takes a deep breath to compose himself and stop the ridiculous train of thought. They don't even know who took him, what reason would they have to kill him through poison? Peter slips an arm under Neal's back, deciding to do whatever he can with what he has.

"Hey, Neal? Think you can walk? Help is on the way, you've just got to get to the door with me, buddy." He starts to pull Neal up, but stops when the consult cries out, stiffening.

Peter drops his hand as if it's hot, shocked. "Neal? What's wrong? What happened?"

Neal glances up apologetically, and a wave of relief rushes through Peter at the acuity in his gaze. _Thank God_. So maybe the drugs weren't as bad as he thought. Of course, Neal does have an incredibly high metabolism.

"I, um… I'm a little sore."

Peter raises a very skeptical eyebrow, and Neal ducks his head, gaze skittering away.

"Would you believe electrocution?"

Wide eyes meet that statement, plenty believing and fully shocked, along with a little disgusted.

"They _electrocuted _you? Why?"

Neal shrugs. "This is going to sound really odd… I think he wants to play."

"_Play? _Who is this 'he?'" But suddenly Peter changes tunes. "Know what? It doesn't matter. We'll figure it out later. We've got to get out of here now."

As he speaks those words, there is a cackle, from somewhere near the wall. Peter pivots toward the sound, hand on his gun. He starts as the source of the laugh is found, and barely keeps himself from stumbling backwards over Neal.

"Yeah…" comes the dry comment from the con man, now picking himself up. "That was about my reaction."

Peter only stares as Will comes closer, a weirdly excited grin on his face. "So, Clue, we reach our first riddle. How does a companion change the game?"

Peter glances sideways at Neal, mouthing _'Clue?'. _Neal only shrugs in response. Will draws nearer, and Marcus enters from the door Peter kicked in. The large man steps up behind his boss, and they both halt five feet from the two other men.

"Why, hello… ah, that's right. We haven't named you yet." He taps his chin. "Well, you're his protector. And a 'good guy.' Almost… a white knight, of sorts. And we all know what knights are called… sir."

The agent hardly keeps his jaw from opening. This guy is nuts! _Anytime now, Jones…_

"So, Sir. You'll notice that your 'back up' isn't here yet. Nor are they going to be anytime soon. No, no, we're just getting started. I never end games this early, do you? No, I don't think so. You seem like someone who doesn't like leaving things unresolved."

"Listen, mister," Peter growls. "I am a Federal Agent. You let us go or you can bet I'll-"

"You'll what? Shoot me? Press charges? Against whom? I don't exist, Sir. And you can't get out. Not yet, anyway."

"Actually, that first one doesn't sound like such a bad idea."

Will's eyes widen as Peter pulls out his gun, but just as he pulls the trigger, Marcus jumps in front of him. The bullet hits the man's stomach and knocks him backwards with the force, but there is no blood. When Marcus stands, growling, Peter realizes it isn't just muscles making his middle so thick. He has on a vest.

"Ah, Sir. So predictable."

Peter blinks and feels Neal flinch behind him as his earlier words are echoed. "Yeah, whatever. I'm serious. Let us go and we may be able to work something out."

"Work something out?" Will questions in obvious disbelief. "Why would I want to do that, and probably still get years of jail, when I can just keep you here and have such fun?"

Peter hopes that he doesn't show how much that bothers him.

"Now I'll let you keep your gun. It won't be of much use here."

With that, he spins on his heel and hurries out of the room. Peter considers shooting again, but sees Marcus eyeing him and knowing he'll jump out before anything can happen. He'd rather save bullets for any escape opportunities. As soon as the two exit, Peter turns to Neal, noting the other man still rubbing his limbs.

"Hey, you okay?" Peter queries, managing to keep his gaze on both the building and Neal simultaneously.

Neal sighs. "Yeah, I'm all right. Just…" He swears under his breath, prompting Peter's eyebrows to raise. "Just get us out of here."

Peter nods, brow furrowed. Neal is acting odd. This seems like it's more than just post-napping trauma. He leaves it alone for now, though. After they get out; from what he's saying, Neal will probably be fine then, anyway.

After all, he always bounces back.


	5. Lost Light

_A/N: I'M BACK! Can you believe it? Are any of you still alive out there? *hangs head* I'm terribly, terribly sorry it has taken so long. I had the absolute worst case of writer's block. But our show's back! *throws confetti* And therefore, so am I. Anyway, I won't keep you waiting much longer. Here 'tis. (Okay, I've gotta rave. Last episode? SO INTENSE. Okay. I'm done. Have fun.)._

_Oh, right. One more thing. Just one, I promise. _

_More gifts to the H/C junkies! I love you guys. _

..

It's twenty minutes later and they've scoured the building, finding absolutely nothing of use. Neal has been hanging back, trying to make it seem like he's not feeling as bad as he is. Peter has been trying to let him. But now it's becoming a problem. Neal's steps keep slowing, and he's caught more than one stumble. Finally, Peter turns around, sighing in aggravation. He feels a twinge of guilt as Neal flinches away from him.

"Shouldn't you be getting better?" It's not what he meant to say, but it's a valid question.

Neal shrugs tiredly, briefly closing his eyes. "Yeah, you'd think." Comes the wry reply. "I don't know what it is. I guess I'm just really tired, ever since this morning. Of course, that…" he gestures vaguely to the wall, "didn't help any."

"Wait," Peter says, holding up a hand. "That? You mean… the wall electrocuted you?"

"Yeah. It's uh, deactivated now, but… I think he has control over pretty much the whole place. Who knows what else is here."

"Great," Peter sighs, cautiously leaning back against the now-unelectrified wall. He gets the feeling Will won't use it on him. "What's the point of all this, huh?"

"I think…" Neal hesitates. "I'm not sure what happened, but he's obviously not right. This is what he does. I mean, I take art, he takes prisoners... and makes a game out of how long they can last. But I think this is the first time he's had two."

"Used to."

"What?" Neal glances up, brow furrowed.

"You used to take art. You don't anymore."

Neal rolls his eyes. "Semantics."

"Sure," Peter replies, turning back to his quest. He hides his smile. Mission accomplished. Banter means Neal's feeling better. Or at least, he's distracted. "You'd better not be doing anything stupid under the radar. You know I'll catch you."

"Yeah, right. You do remember the only reason you caught me is because I let you?"

"The second time, maybe. You were stupid. But the first time? All me."

"Okay, Peter, whatever you…"

Peter pauses, concerned, when Neal's words fade away. He turns just in time to see the ex-felon's knees buckle, and swears, lunging to catch the falling body. They both go to the ground, Peter awkwardly cushioning Neal's fall by keeping a hold on his torso. By the time they've landed, Peter is on his knees with Neal leaning against him. He pats the other man's cheek, now ridiculously pale.

"Neal? Neal, what the heck? What happened?"

It takes far too long for Neal to answer, in Peter's opinion. "I don't know… got dizzy. I just-" His answer is cut off again, this time by a choked gasp as he stiffens in Peter's arms. The agent is about two inches from panicking.

"Caffrey! What's wrong?"

Neal writhes, pulling away from Peter and putting both hands to his head. He bows over, forehead nearly touching the ground.

"I can't… Can't you hear it? It's so loud…"

"Hear what, Neal? There's nothing! I can't hear anything!"

Neal groans pathetically, hands fisting in his hair. "Peter… Just… make it stop."

And now Neal's begging, and Peter has _never _heard him sound like this. "Okay, Neal, okay. Just calm down, huh?" He cautiously approaches again, experimentally setting a hand on Neal's shoulder. He grunts in surprise when the younger man falls into him, but his arms come up of their own accord and tighten marginally, allowing the con man some form of comfort as he trembles.

Peter's vision flashes red suddenly as he realizes Will must be doing this somehow. He unconsciously tightens his hands into fists, imagining the decrepit man's neck between them. As Neal continues to gasp, the agent makes a vow.

He _will _kill this man. No matter what it takes.

...

In reality, it's only two minutes until Neal relaxes again. To both men it feels much longer. The agent feels Neal collapse against him-and seriously, this scene will _never _leave this building-but can't really see the motion, as his intense glare hasn't left the ceiling since the whole debacle started.

"Peter?"

"Don't say it, Neal."

There's a silence, followed by a chuckle. "Right." Peter helps Neal stand, and watches with a creased brow until the other man looks back at him.

"I've heard that if you stare at someone long enough, they grow wings. You trying for that?"

Peter rolls his eyes and turns around, but lets Neal pass before continuing to walk. He continues to watch the slight form, staring intently at his back. Neal never shows weakness; it isn't in his character. That must've been… Peter holds back a shudder and tightens his hand on his gun. They've got to find a way out of here.

"Neal."

"Yeah, Peter?"

"How did you get here?"

Neal huffs softly. "Unconscious."

Peter's step waver, guilt beginning to seep back into his mind. "Drugged?"

"Yeah."

Well… maybe that isn't a bad sign. Maybe that headache had just been some strange side effect of whatever they'd used on him. He'd heard chloroform horror stories, why not, right? Peter sighs. And maybe he is grasping at nothing.

"Oh, by the way. We don't have to work on the 'Art Shredder' case anymore. Whole thing was him. Setting us up. Luring me in…"

Peter blinks. "The entire case… was all him?"

"Seems so."

_You're kidding me_. There wasn't even a case. It had all been a set up. Peter clenches his fist, drawing in a deep breath. The psycho had outwitted them before all this crap had even started. He may be forced to reconsider the intelligence of this guy.

Just as Peter is about to hand Neal his gun so he doesn't start shooting anything he can see, the light cuts out. No fizzle, no warning, just a millisecond and complete, total darkness.

Peter instinctively reaches out in front of him, finding Neal's shirt and gripping a handful of material.

"Hey, watch it," the other man warns. "You're wrinkling my suit."

Snorting in disbelief, Peter transfers his hold to Neal's arm. "Oh, so sorry. My bad." He rolls his eyes even though Neal can't see him. "We should move to the center of the room to wait out this… whatever he's trying to accomplish with this. From what you've said, I think it's best to stay away from the walls."

"Yeah. Right."

Peter frowns. Something's not right. "Caffrey? You all right?"

"What? Fine. What do you mean?"

A sigh. "Never mind. Come on." He must have imagined it… Neal isn't afraid of anything, is he? Peter starts to worry, however, when Neal won't budge even as he tugs on him to move into the middle. "Neal. Come on."

"Oh-ah, yeah. Sorry."

Okay, there's no way he's imaging _that_. There's an unmistakable tremor in his consultant's normally vibrant voice. And it's starting to spread to his limbs.

"Neal. What's going on?"

"Nothing! Just-nothing. Move."

Peter growls under his breath, practically pulling Caffrey away from the wall. He can see nothing, and his eyes haven't adjusted in the least to the pitch black. The two men stumble into the approximate center of the building and plant themselves on the floor. Peter keeps his hand on Neal's arm-strictly for location purposes. But he can't help but frown when he feels the shaking transferring through the silken fabric.

"Neal…"

No answer. The trembling suddenly increases.

"Neal?"

"P-Peter…. Can't…"

Burke is already on his knees, scooting closer in a vain attempt to pierce the darkness. Neal's making strange noises… is that wheezing?

"Can't-breathe…"

Peter's eyes widen and he grips Caffrey's shoulders, feeling them heave even as Neal gasps. He swears but gently pushes Neal into a flat position, laying a hand on his chest.

"Okay, Neal, calm down. Deep breaths, come on, breathe with me."

Even as he instructs Neal in a quiet, even voice, his mind is racing. What's causing this? Will again? It couldn't be; if it was some kind of drug Peter would have gotten it, too. After all, it would have to be aerosolized since Neal hasn't been fed and he would have told Peter if they'd forced anything on him. It wouldn't have taken this long, anyway. So what, then? It has to be Neal himself. But he isn't asthmatic. What on earth is causing this?

Neal coughs, still sounding like he's trying to suck air through a straw.

His earlier shaking hands and now this sudden episode finally click together in Peter's mind. There's nothing outside causing this at all-it's a panic attack.

"Caffrey! Listen to me. Match me. You can do this. Calm down."

Forgoing his earlier plan, Peter draws Neal to himself, deliberately exaggerating his breathing. Neal's back is snug against his chest, so Peter can feel every trembling gasp. Nothing changes as the smaller man continues to shake and sweat.

"P-Peter… I can't—" a hoarse gasp. "Can't…"

"I know, Neal. You've got to calm down. Please, Neal. Match my breathing, come on."

Caffrey's back arches, and Peter momentarily fears Neal's going to pass out. But no. He manages to grab enough control to settle back against the agent. Everything about him is tense, but Peter realizes Neal is actually trying to follow his instructions. He focuses on keeping his own breathing perfectly steady. Neal's tight lungs refuse to cooperate for the first minute, but after an eternity, they begin to loosen.

"Oh, thank God…" It's a whisper, but right now Peter doesn't really care if Neal can hear him or not.

Neal slides away from Peter, keeping one hand twisted in his sleeve. He's greedily sucking in oxygen, and Peter gives him a few moments before speaking.

"Care to explain what just happened?"

Neal laughs bitterly as he rights himself.

"Figured out that wasn't environmental, huh?"

"Even if I hadn't have, you just told me. But yes, I did."

Neither of them speak for a moment. Peter feels Neal's grip tighten.

"So, you wanna tell me—"

"Peter." Neal's voice is strained enough for the Suit to start worrying he's going to freak out again. "I can't."

"Okay."

Another silence. Longer this time.

"Neal?"

"Yeah?"

"We'll beat him."

"I know."

A sudden sound has both men immediately on edge. The door opens. It is the only source of light, and as such, the figure standing there is nothing more than a silhouette. But it is a quickly recognizable one.

Will.

"Good evening, boys."

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

_A/N: Thar 'tis. Reviews are the air to my plane. _


	6. Games and Glass

_A/N: Hey, guys! So. I wasn't quite as fast as I thought I'd be. I'm turning into a very sluggish writer, and I apologize for that. I hope you continue to enjoy this, though, and I can't thank you enough for all your support. Here's to you! _

Peter is standing and taking Neal with him. His hand instinctively reaches for his gun and rests atop it. Marcus is nowhere in sight, but then again, it's pretty dark.

"I wouldn't try anything. My soft-headed but obedient associate has stepped out for the moment, but I am far from defenseless. You remember Clue's little… episode earlier? Not his near-suffocation, mind you, that was pure luck. Delightfully unexpected, isn't he? I'm talking about before that."

Peter recalls Caffrey's sudden collapse earlier. He'd talked about hearing something… Will moves, and dim lights come up. In the man's hand is some sort of transmitter.

"Everyone's brain reacts to different frequencies, you see. It took a bit of trial and error, but what results! Worth the pride, I'd say. A certain game-changer. Speaking of our game, let's get back to it, shall we?"

"You're sick," Peter spits, stepping ever-so-slightly in front of a disturbingly silent Neal. Will's face darkens.

"Oh, no, sir. Merely enlightened." He brings the lights further up and shuts the door, drawing nearer to them. "I've brought Clue here with much anticipation. However, neither of you have quite lived up to expectations. So here are the rules. Somewhere within this compound I have hidden something away. You have exactly two hours to find it and bring it back to me. If you can do that, you win the game. The prize? Freedom."

Peter nods, hesitates but doesn't show it. "And if we lose?"

Will only chuckles. "One more rule." His gaze darkens. "Don't try anything. I can see you at all times, and if you even attempt an escape or a contact to 'your people'… well…" His hand twitches, the transmitter in his grip starts blinking, and suddenly Neal's clutching his head with a cry.

Peter's immediately pivoting, gripping Neal's arms just as his kness buckle. He moans and drops his forehead onto the agent's shoulder, locking his hands behind his head.

"Okay! We get it. Stop."

Will smiles and the light stops blinking. Neal relaxes. Peter pulls him up and heads for the door. They don't have time to argue with this guy.

"Oh, yes, and… do be careful, Sir. You know how dangerous games can be."

They don't look back.

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

"Okay. We have one hour, 52 minutes. If we go at this logically, we can get done with plenty of time to spare."

"It can't be that easy. You heard what he said—'be careful.' He's probably booby-trapped the whole place."

"Well, nothin' we can do about that except keeping an eye out. Come on."

Peter steps purposefully away from the dome, his long strides taking him quickly towards the opposite wall. He'd forgotten the large room had only been part of a larger project—that mall they'd been building. It stands before them now, a large shell that would normally be thriving. Peter can't remember why they had trashed the project—ran out of funds, he supposes.

"Okay. We start at the northwest corner and work our way down that side. Then we'll come back up."

"Wouldn't it be faster if we both took an end?"

"No. We'll search the rooms twice as fast this way—same thing. Besides, I let you go wandering off and you'll get yourself killed."

"Aw, Peter, you do care."

"Yeah, about the pileup of liability paperwork I'd have to fill out if you bit it. Come _on._"

The two head to the farthest unfinished store space to the north, striding quickly but with all caution. Neal scans the floor for anything out of the ordinary and Peter does the same for the walls and ceiling. He dismisses nothing, taking care to no longer underestimate their unpredictable foe.

It's so strange. The stores are almost completely filled in. There are furnishings and posters, and frequently left-behind merchandise. Why would they do that? He'd thought this was an abandoned construction project, not a fully-filled closed mall. _Doesn't matter, anyway._

The first room is fairly normal, a good-sized square cut into the wall in the same template as almost any mall. There's a notable fact, though. It's almost empty but for a long counter along one wall, punctuated with holes where something would be, were it used to its full intention.

"Barber shop," Neal remarks, leaning against the outer wall. "It won't be here."

Peter turns to him in half-irritation. "How do you know? We don't even know what 'it' is."

"Yeah, but we know who hid it. This isn't him at all… it doesn't fit into his template so far."

"But wouldn't he know that we would know that?"

"Yes. And he doesn't care. That's all part of it—he knows he has the upper hand. That's the best, maybe the only, part to him. Knowing he's better and using that superiority to his advantage. Anyway, it won't be here. If for no other reason, he wants us to cut it as close to the end time as possible."

"Then why don't we check the last rooms?"

Neal pushes off the wall, eyes rolling. "No. That would be too obvious."

Peter's hands fly into the air as his gaze is thrown heavenward. "How do we know he hid something at all? Maybe he's just watching us; waiting for the time to run out knowing there's nothing here and he's led us on a goose chase. That'd give him quite the power trip."

Neal shakes his head, wandering into the next unfinished store. "It's here. He doesn't lie. It's… against the rules."

"You mean _our _rules?"

"That's just it," Neal says, turning to face the Agent, brows furrowed. "Normally, the rule-givers are just that. But he's… different. This thing he does—he gets his prisoners to play whatever his game of the day is _with _him. He's not just watching us play, he's one of the players. And that means he has to follow the rules."

"Okay. But how do you know the rules?"

"I don't. I just know that one."

With that, he's walking away, running his hand along the top of an empty bookshelf. Peter joins him and leans on the side, pushing hard. It shifts and he checks along the wall and floor where it had been. Nothing. Every shelf. Nothing. They rush through the room, eyes and fingers scanning and touching every surface; every corner; every freakin' tile.

Nothing.

"Neal, are you sure—"

"Peter!"

The agent is immediately running, out of the room and to the one two places down, where Caffrey's voice is coming from. How had he gotten there so fast?

"What is it?"

Neal is standing in the middle of the next unfinished store, surrounded by empty glass display cases.

"It's nearby here. Whatever he's hidden… it's his 'gem.' I don't think it'll be in here, but it should be close."

"You don't think?"

"You can never be sure, Peter. Tell you what, you go ahead and—"

He doesn't get a chance to finish as a piercing squeal splits the air between the two men. Peter instantly covers his ears but Neal is too preoccupied diving out of the way as the cases beside him splinters and cracks. A millisecond later, they explode outward, driving glass shards into the walls and ceiling. Peter had been far enough away to escape any damage, but as he looks up and sees no Neal, his pulse jumps up more than a few beats.

"Caffrey?" No answer. He steps forward. "Neal, answer me!"

The younger man pokes his head up from behind a display case, looking somewhat sheepish. "Here. Sorry." He shifts into a kneeling position, leaning with his left arm on the destroyed case. "On second thought, I think I will look here."

"Okay. There's not much to look through, I'll stay and help."

"No." Peter looks up, eyebrow cocked. Neal backtracks a bit. "No, we're running out of time. I know how you feel about splitting up, but we're going to have to. I'll finish up here and go across. Like I said, it should be close. Just look for something out of place; something that looks… like him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" He falls back, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks again, it's with a much wearier voice. "Yes. Peter, please. I don't want to… We can't run out of time. We'll be within speaking distance." A pause. "Not stop being such a mother hen."

Peter sighs, pulling his gun out of its holster and setting it on the shelf nearest him. At Caffrey's disbelieving look, "Not a word."

Then he's gone.

Neal sighs in relief, sagging back against the wall behind him. He shifts and grunts in pain, stilling. A hand is pressed against his midsection. Reluctantly, he pulls it away, raising it to eye level and paling.

It's covered in blood.

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

_Reviews are the ice to my age. _


	7. Alone Again

_A/N: Hi guys! :D This wait wasn't quite as long, was it? I apologize in advance about the wait, but I figured you guys would rather have a shorter update sooner than… well, you know. So here y'are. And the plot continues to thicken…_

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

"Uncompromising idiot," Peter mutters as he all but stomps into the next room.

In reality, he knows Neal is only being logical. But the paternal side of the agent (which apparently does exist, not that he would ever admit that to _anyone_) doesn't want to leave the trouble magnet alone. Knowing Neal, Will is likely to have a complete psychotic break, forget the rules, and come rushing out with a gun. Which is why Peter left his.

He growls, dropping to his knees next to a discarded chair. Despite the unfortunate connotations of his profiling, Neal's right. Will has left this "gem" of his nearby—Peter can tell. It's one of those instinct things. His skin is crawling, as if in the presence of some greater evil. He's going to be taking a long shower after all this is over.

Something catches his eye. It's white; just peeking out from under the carpet, over in the corner. Peter checks his watch. They've still got nearly twenty minutes left. Either this isn't the item, or Will underestimated them. Peter crawls over, taking care to pass his hands over the floor before depositing his entire weight on it. It wouldn't actually do much good if there were anything potentially endangering there, but it does comfort Peter—just a little. Some psychological thing. In any case, he reaches the corner with no foul play, and pulls back the carpet, revealing a pearl chess queen. It definitely seems to fit their captor.

Sure enough, not a minute later a voice is filling the corridor outside, raspy and neutral.

"Impressive, boys. He's never had such clever players. It's thrilling, really."

Peter stands, chess piece in hand. He's not quite sure why, but holding onto it seems like a good idea.

Wait, _he's_ never had such players? What…?

"Neal?" He hisses, scanning the rooms across from him.

There's no sign of the consult. He'd said after he'd checked the would-be jewelry store, he'd move across the way. Since he's not over there, he must still be where Peter left him. But that doesn't make any sense… there really wasn't that much to go over in the now-decimated jeweler's. Frowning, Peter starts to exit the store.

And stops, blocked suddenly by a long knife, glimmering in the fluorescent lights. Marcus has appeared out of nowhere.

"Let me through. We beat your boss's little game; we're free to go."

Marcus grins, and Peter blinks at the acuity in his shockingly venomous gaze. What happened to the subservient idiot of not so long ago? "My boss? Yeah, he's a little tied up at the moment, which means I'm in charge. And _I _say, move along. _That way._" Which is, of course, the complete opposite of where Peter wants to go.

But, having no choice and still in shock, he precedes the big man out of the store, at least holding onto the hope that Marcus is leaving Neal behind. But that begs the question: why? Why would his newest captor leave a cunning con man behind unless he knew he posed no immediate threat?

Peter balls his fists, an unsettling feeling nestling into his chest. This is definitely not good.

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

Neal quickly wipes the incriminating scarlet fluid onto his pant leg, for no reason other than reflex. His eyes snap shut for a moment, refusing to transmit any more images to his brain. But he doesn't need vision to feel pain. And feel it he does, a deep burning seeping up from his right side, into his heart. He risks a look again and just manages to keep from gagging.

He knew he'd been hit, but hadn't quite known how bad until Peter left. No use worrying the man when he had a job to do. The needy side of Neal, however, is currently busy shouting obscenities at him for being so stupid to purposely leave him alone and defenseless with a long piece of glass sticking out of his side.

Neal struggles to compartmentalize, the one thing he us usually so adept at. Or maybe not, but that's a topic for another time. In any case, he can't quite manage it now, and is starting to worry. He'd figured he could hold out until Peter found Will's item, but it's been awhile and nothing's happened. He tries to pull himself up—maybe it isn't as bad as it looks; maybe he can help—but quickly aborts that plan at the breathtaking jaggedness that instantly scorches through him upon movement.

A gasp escapes him, but any further sound he holds back as a voice comes from the space beside the store he's in. Neal listens carefully, eyes narrowing as he realizes it isn't Will. And as they continue to speak, now conversing with Peter, dread spikes in his chest. Marcus? But how? This whole time… it couldn't have been an act, could it? He's been with Will for ages, hasn't he?

Neal leans back against the wall, head spinning. This doesn't make any sense. And even if it did, it's still bad. Very bad. Will has rules he has to comply by… such as letting them go upon finding his piece. But Marcus is a completely different ball game, and Neal doesn't know what to do.

So he stays still and silent, breath catching more than once as his only hope is led away. Neal curses under his breath as all his plans drain away, thoughts spinning like threads through his mind, thin and weak and becoming unbearably tangled. He's about to try standing again when the lights go out.

He freezes. But this time, he doesn't even have time to swear before he's in another place…

_"Now. Just breathe. It's all right now, just keep breathing. You'll have this in no time."_

_ The boys sit in the dark, trembling atop their rickety wooden chairs. There are four of them, the oldest a mere eleven years of age and the youngest four years under that. There is also a man, circling them even though they can't see him through the tar-thick blackness. _

_ "I know you guys can do it. I know you can." _

_ He sounds pleasant enough, but each word seems to send a shiver through the boys. There is a subtle malice laced through the supportive phrases. _

_ "It's not hard. I've showed you how. Now come on; make me proud." _

_ The oldest boy steps out of his chair, knees locked to keep from knocking together. In his hand is a short dagger, and he holds it straight out in front of him as he ever-so-slowly moves forward. His ear are perked and ready; his back straight as a rod. From somewhere to the left of him comes nothing more than a whisper of cloth, and he's striking. _

_ "Very good."_

_ He grips his dagger harder to keep it from slipping out of his sweaty hand. These maneuvers continue for a few minutes until he steps left instead of right. His dagger hits the wall and spins away from him, the unexpected contact taking him to his knees. Immediately, he's standing again, searching in the dark for his weapon. But it's too late. A large hand descends on his shoulder and he whimpers. _

_ "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll get it back I'll be better I promise! Please, let me do it again. Please don't! Please don't!"_

_ The man's voice is surprisingly gentle when he speaks, one hand still on the boy's shoulder as the other is preoccupied with something else. _

_ "You're my best student. But if I let things go for you, what do you think will happen to the other boys? We'll have no order anymore." He steps back and the boy cowers, crying. "I'm sorry, Neal."_

_ The whip comes down. And doesn't stop. _

~WC~WC~WC~WC~

_A/N: Reviews are the pound to my cake. _


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